Father's Day (6 page)

As if on cue, the phone rang. Their heads turned simultaneously in the direction of the piercing ring and then back to each other in a synchronized rhythm, like they were attached to the same string. Lou got to it first and put the receiver flat against his ear.

“Is Margaret there with you?”

He immediately recognized the commanding voice, the blistering tone. It was his ex-wife, Maggie’s mom, the hand that held that string and kept it taut. She always did have impeccable timing. With his face twisted into a sneer, the phone six inches away, he nodded toward his daughter and tossed it over.

Margaret was named after her maternal grandmother, a bullheaded, stiff-necked old battle-ax, right off the boat from a
chicken farm in Poland. She’d survived famine, sickness, war, and the Depression and would probably outlive her children. She was round in the middle and wide in the shoulders and still spoke with a broken English that sounded ancient and spoke to her children in a voice only they understood. It told them that she didn’t always have it so good, that they should cherish what they did have because it can easily be taken away—gone at the drop of a hat—your money, your freedom, your life. She didn’t have to spell it out. It was written on her face for those who could read it and Lou read her like a book. In many ways the two of them were pages in the same book. Lou had always suspected he liked her more than he liked her daughter, his wife of more than fifteen years who knew less about her own mother than he did . . . less about her daughter as well.

He snatched the phone abruptly out of Maggie’s hand.

“She’ll be with me for a couple of days.”

He slammed down the receiver without waiting for an answer. He’d barely lifted his hand from the phone when it rang again. The shrillness of the ring startled him and he didn’t pick it up right away, the phone ringing twice and three times without an answer.

“Get it,” roared Maggie, her nose peeking through the open fridge.

“You get it, kid. It’s probably your mother. You know she always has to get in the last word.”

Maggie listened without a word to the voice on the other end of the line. It wasn’t her mother. She held out the phone and announced the caller.

“Lieutenant Mitchell, Philadelphia police.”

Lou had known Kevin
Mitchell for years. They’d attended the police academy together. But Mitchell’s political connections got him the promotions Lou never got and Mitchell had eventually become his supervisor. He’d been Lou’s boss and also his friend. He’d supervised the investigation into his mother’s murder. He was still a cop and Lou knew this wasn’t a personal call.

The body of Richie Mazzino had been discovered sitting behind the wheel of his truck, submerged at the bottom of Richland Quarry. A call had come in to the Belmont Barracks, shots fired. Officers responded and divers fished him out. He’d been executed, a single gunshot to the temple.

Richland Quarry was a favorite spot for fisherman and boaters. It was an old stone quarry that ran out of rock, depleted by the construction of all those housing developments springing up in Bucks County. Everybody wanted a stone face on their house and most of them had the money to pay for it. They couldn’t dig the shit out fast enough. Twenty years ago, it was all farmland. Once the quarry went dry, they dammed Leggat’s
Creek and filled it with water, named it after the old guy that first stuck a shovel into that piece of earth. It was a hell of a place to bury a body.

According to Mitchell, witnesses placed him in Mazz’s company only hours before the time of death. Lou’s missing person case and the murder of Richie Mazzino appeared to be linked. He was standing flatfoot in the middle and Mitchell needed to see him, pronto.

“It’s a little late. Don’t you think, Mitch? Can’t it wait until tomorrow morning?”

“If it was anyone else, I’d have the boys on their way to pick you up, Lou. I’ll see you tomorrow and don’t oversleep.”

Lou hung up the phone and poured himself another Jim Beam. His daughter had dug into a bag of hot chips she’d found in the cabinet behind two five-pound cans of coffee.

“We got trouble, Dad?”

“No trouble. The way you say trouble, reminds me of my old captain, Tony Black. He was long before your time. We’d call him Blackey but not just because of his name. He took everything so seriously. And that’s what he used to say, ‘We got trouble, gentlemen,’ and all the guys would look at him, like ‘What kind of trouble are you talking about.’ Because these guys had seen so much trouble in their lives, it didn’t faze them anymore. ‘What’s the worst that could happen,’ they’d say. ‘Someone dies.’ Well someone dies every day. That’s not trouble. That’s life.”

He sipped the whiskey and gave his daughter a little squeeze.

“Who died?”

“Nobody you know. Another wiseguy that thought if he stuck his chest out far enough, people would think he was tough.”

“I guess he was wrong.”

“I guess he was.”

“You still didn’t open your present.”

Lou unwrapped the small box, easing the tape up gently,
trying not to rip the paper to shreds. He’d always been that way—tried to be delicate when everyone else was tearing at the wrapping paper like dogs digging in the ground. He was sure he recognized the box now and the emerald earrings inside. Maggie took the box from him and put them on one at a time. Lou watched her pull her hair back, hypnotized by the green stones dangling from her ears. They were both smiling. In another second, they’d be crying.

He arrived at the Nineteenth Precinct house at eight o’clock, sharp. He was showered and shaved as though it was his first day on a new job. He wore his charcoal gray suit with a red pinstripe. The white shirt and red paisley tie made him look like a gangster or a lawyer, not a cop. If this was a formal occasion, a wedding or a funeral, he would have cut a carnation for his lapel. The rookie behind the bulletproof glass tried to look tough with his fish eyes, long nose, and tight mouth. Lou gave his name, stated his business, and was buzzed in.

Mitchell’s office was a perfect square, a cubicle, like the offices at the bank—just enough space for a desk, a chair, and a bookshelf. It wouldn’t take long for those plaster walls to start moving in, Lou thought. The window behind his desk let in enough light and air to make it bearable. Lou tried to make himself comfortable in a short, stiff green vinyl chair with a little wobble in it—the hot seat, designed to make its occupant feel small.

The walls were covered with plaques and awards, certificates in gold frames and diplomas in bold black letters, a lifetime of accomplishments on display. A set of keys to a brand-new Crown Vic sat on the desk next to a pen set and a humidor filled with cigars.

Glossy color pictures graced the perfectly polished shelves
of a tall mahogany bookshelf. Mitchell graduating from the FBI Academy. Mitchell shaking hands with Bush. Mitchell accepting a commendation from the governor. In the center of them all, buried in a spherical monument of glass, was the Medal of Valor, Mitchell’s prized possession. When someone asked him about it, he said it was an award they gave for pulling the trigger. Mitchell leaned across his desk, lifted the heavy lid of the humidor, and offered Lou a cigar. He told him to take a couple for the road. There was no smoking in the building.

Mitchell hadn’t changed much. His face was hard, like petrified wood, and completely clean-shaven. His hair was slate gray. He was a man that wielded authority and saw the world in strictly black and white. His hands were thick and large. Now they held a copy of the
Daily News
, featuring the extra hole in Mazz’s head and his lifeless body slumped against the steering wheel of an early model Chevy pickup.

The truck was dragged out of the quarry while the news cameras rolled from shore. It looked like the engine was still running. Mazz gave a whole new meaning to swimming with the fishes. Mitchell threw the open paper flat on the table and tapped it firmly with his index finger.

“What do you know about this, Lou?”

“I saw Mazz last night, before midnight. We spoke, we drank, we danced, and we parted the best of friends.”

“Can the double-talk, Lou. I need info.”

“C’mon, Mitch, the guy’s a Pagan. This has gang hit written all over it. I’m not going to play patsy for you or anybody else.”

“Can you tell me what you’re working on, maybe I can help. We can work together.”

“Like old times, Mitch.”

“Like old times.”

“Can’t right now. But when I can, you’ll be the first to know.”

“We already know more than you think, Lou.”

“Now it’s we. Who’s we, Mitch? We started off just you and me.”

“The police, Lou. I’d like to think you’re still one of us.”

“It’s always us or them. Isn’t it, Mitch? I didn’t know I had to make a choice.”

Neither of them liked where the conversation was going but trying to get Mitch to change directions was like trying to prevent a train derailment. Lou leaned back and gripped the arms of the chair. His palms were covered with sweat.

“Is Sarah Blackwell paying you for your services or is the compensation coming in some other form?”

“You work fast, Mitch. Since you know all about it, why don’t you tell me.”

“No faster than you. I’m paid to know things.”

“Her money is just as green as the money you get paid with. The way you make it sound, it’s just as dirty.”

“Ten years ago I would have slugged you for that crack.”

“And now?”

“Just watch your step Lou and take my advice. Find out where Sarah Blackwell gets her money and you’ll learn how things work around here.”

“You’re talking about Vincent Trafficante.”

“He wields a lot of power in this part of the world, Lou. He’s a genuine heavyweight. He throws a lot of money around and quite a few people owe him favors.”

“Including members of the Philadelphia Police Department.”

“No comment. He was heavily involved in local politics about ten to fifteen years ago. I think he started in Public Works. Then, he became the mayor’s personal assistant, head of Community Development and a liaison to local business. His family had a big trucking company in the city and every truck that rolled was bought from him. The snow got plowed, the garbage got collected, the roads got paved, and Vince got paid. He’d get
your brother a job and then try to bang your sister. He had his eye on the state senate but was advised against it. Too many skeletons in his closet.”

“A real stand-up guy.”

“I never said otherwise.”

“Dangerous, you think?”

“I’d say so. He’s got a guy working for him now, Tommy Ahearn. I’d watch out for him. He’s an ex-fighter, an Atlantic City guy. Not your playful type.”

“Thanks for the information, Mitch, but why the sudden concern for my welfare. You sound like you have a guilty conscience.”

“If there’s a connection between the murder of Richie Mazzino and whatever it is you’re working on, I’ll want your cooperation.”

“You’ll get it.”

Lou pulled a picture of Carol Ann Blackwell from the breast pocket of his suit coat and tossed it on the desk. The graduation picture showed a girl of eighteen, who could have been twenty-four, with red painted lips curled into a pout, and a face with a seductive tilt, framed by waves of flowing black hair. She was beautiful and a magnet for trouble. That was obvious from the photograph. What was also obvious was that she knew it.

“Your current assignment, I take it.”

“Want to tag along while I talk to her mom? She’s at Lankenau Hospital. Tried to kill herself last night while I was sipping my coffee.”

They rose in unison and made for the door. Mitch passed the picture back and spoke with the earnestness of a career cop.

“Worth killing for, Lou.”

Lou looked him in the eye and said dryly, “Or dying for.”

They stepped outside into a cold light rain. The sky was a pale gray, low and heavy with moisture. There wasn’t much wind. It was the kind of rain that became a nuisance because it
just wouldn’t stop. A few exits south on Interstate 95, the streets of Baltimore and Washington were flooded with rainwater. A few miles to the north and it would be snow, the highway impassable. In Philadelphia, it was going to rain all day and turn to ice at night.

Lou ignored the speed limit. He blew a few lights on Vine Street and hit the Schuylkill Expressway. He’d always hated that stretch of road, the same two narrow lanes with the amount of traffic it had to hold doubling every year. He opened the driver’s side window just enough for the cigarette smoke to filter out. He pushed the pedal to the floor, never touched the brakes. Mitch followed in his own car. They were both accustomed to speed. It was the way cops learned to drive out of necessity.

Lou didn’t mind having Mitch along, as long as it served both their purposes, but he wasn’t going to let Mitch slow him down. Mitch had learned routine and restraint on the job while Lou had been forced to fly by the seat of his pants. Mitch’s tools had become pencil and paper. They both knew how to use a gun if they were forced into it. It wasn’t easy to forget. Mitchell had only killed in war, though. Lou had pulled his pistol plenty of times on the job. He’d had to use it only once.

He’d killed a man, a kid really, nineteen years old. He’d chased him into a dark alley after a burglary. He remembered the running most, seeing himself in his mind’s eye, moving in slow motion, asking himself why he was doing it, why risk his life, what good would come of it. He could have let him go, let him get away, and told his superiors that he just lost him in the darkness between the buildings. It wouldn’t have mattered, one more that got away in a city where getting away with it was nothing unusual. He’d yelled for the guy to stop, wished he would just stop. But then the shots exploded in his ears and flashed in his eyes. He’d fired blindly. Lou had walked out of that dark alley alone. A part of him was still there.

Lou and Mitch pulled
up in front of Lankenau Hospital. They wound their way through three rows of parked cars, past an enclosed smoking shelter and a grassy island planted with orange and yellow flowers. The front doors slid open automatically, fans humming overhead as if they were in a wind tunnel. Lou hated hospitals. They were the end of the line.